


Rockstar

by DozingNeko



Series: Johnlock "Daily" Prompts [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Blowjobs, Cocktails are cool, Deepthroating, Heart (Band) Reference, John is anti-hipster, John is not impressed with Sherlock's Band, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Sherlock Holmes: Diva, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Sherlock is an ass, Sherlock is in a band, cocktails, me too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 01:31:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14321592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DozingNeko/pseuds/DozingNeko
Summary: Violin does not a rockband make.





	Rockstar

The pub was filled with a low roar of voices. Each person held a drink, mostly mixed cocktails. At the back, behind the curtain pulled shut on the raised stage, came soft plucks of a bass, quiet squeals of a guitar riff, a steady thumping of drums. 

Nearby the door, at the corner where bar met wall, sat John. John Watson, thirty, nearly a year into his doctorate, slumped against the narrow back of his stool. Despite his exhaustion, he'd been dragged out by a few mates - a pretty raven-haired nurse from his clinic named Julie, a broad shouldered bloke from uni named Alyn, and, naturally, Mike. 

Alyn had heard about a band. Something that had started as a shit little quartet run out of a storage unit, and gotten four tickets, and allowed John a plus one for an early birthday gift. John had chosen to bring along Julie. Not only was she nice to look at, she was companionable. With a crooked smile, she drank her vodka soda and jested with the boys, going on about how genuinely excited she was to see the band. She'd heard somewhere that they base their melodies around the violinist. 

John dreaded it. A band with a violin was likely not at all a good band. Like a ukulele in ACDC. 

The first rough drag of bow over strings through an amp over his head made the bargoers fall utterly silent, waiting on bated breath for the show to finally begin.  _ Ammunition _ was twelve minutes late to start. John blithely drained half of his lemony drink with a mellow cringe. He couldn’t pinpoint what was in it. It certainly was palatable, though. 

A strange rhythmic fiddling began, and from the velvet curtains came the guitarist, gently working the metal strings with expert fingers, a look of amusement on his face. He wore a faded black t-shirt and low-riding jeans, almost a third of the way down his thighs despite his checkered belt’s best efforts. The melody was quick and rhythmic, nearly growling as it went along, a massive contrast to the squeal of violin. 

The crowd, save John, began to chatter excitedly. “That's Wes.” Julie told him brightly. Reading the excitement on her face made him smile in response. 

“He's good.” John nodded. “Reminds me of Barracuda, by Heart.” He sat back a bit, making eye contact with the bartender and raising his glass, draining the last of it while another was prepared. He told himself he was only drinking mixers since the event,  _ Rock Out With Your Cocktail Out _ was fifty percent off. 

Julie blinked. “Eh?”

John's heart sank a few centimetres in his chest, but he just waved her off, smiling and accepting another jigger of his drink. 

Drawn back to the performance, John looked up just in time to see the bassist emerge from backstage, gently stroking the thick metal strings of his black bass. The line was subtle and low. Lights glinted off of his leather jacket and his sweaty forehead, his blonde hair glowing.

Last to step out was the violinist, in a suit,  _ pretentious arse, _ with curly black hair, fingers restlessly flying over the strings, a slightly raised eyebrow of bemusement at the sound of excitable cries in the audience, including Julie, who raised her hands to her mouth. 

John tilted his head, smirking in disbelief. Maybe he should pick up clarinet again. Join a boy band. 

His chin pressed down on his instrument, his bow moving blindingly fast between his fingers, all except his pinkie. With the physique of some Salvador Dali shit, dressed like emo Liberace, swaying to the beat of the music, eyes shut. The drapes slid open, revealing the redhaired drummer in a polo shirt with a little white embroidery on his left pectoral. 

Julie didn't bother introducing the other band members, focused now on the four men and leaving John in the dark as the drumming began, heavy and intense. It was oddly complementary to the ensemble, the rapid violin, guttural guitar, smooth bass, and then the crooning of a thick Russian voice coming from the bassist as he sang along to the fiddle, his eyes shut. 

John watched, attempting to appear ambivalent, merely listened, turning away and leaning against the bar. 

The woman scurried over, looking curiously at him. “Can I get you something?” She bowed to ask, beaming professionally. The kind of beam that would get her a ton of orders and tips from several men and women. 

“Not my scene.” John nodded. 

What felt like an eternity and several fizzy drinks later - John would probably not stop burping for the rest of the week - the band decided to be finished, led foremost by the violinist, who quickly and efficiently tucked his instrument into its case and pulled a long strap over his head and under his arm like a mail carrier bag and in a thoroughly dignified manner strode to the bar. 

At once, a drink was slid into his hand. Either this Diva was a regular, or was well known enough to have his drink prepared the moment he stepped off the stage. 

“We should go talk to him.” Julie stated, turning to grin at him. 

John raised his eyebrows.  _ “We?” _

Julie pouted. “Don't make me do it alone. He's so bloody intimidating-”

“What!” John laughed. “He's all bone, no muscle.”

“Just come with me!” Julie grabbed him by his arm and hauled him away, nearly spilling his citrusy drink over. 

The man straightened when he spotted their approach, no doubt muttering a curse about his groupies before greeting them with a neutral scowl. “Hello.”

Just the one word nearly had Julie in a puddle just beyond the tip of his black Oxfords. Her cheeks went red, her eyes huge and shiny, her temples beginning to sweat. “Hi, I, erm-"

“Enjoyed the show?” Offered the Diva, smiling slightly, making the outsides of his eyes crinkle. The falsity of it made John's stomach sour. The way he flaunted sex appeal for the weak of heart like Julie's was plain cruel. No woman of flesh and bone could resist the way his people shirt just barely refrained from ripping open where it was strained across his chest. 

“Yes!” Julie cried, blushing harder. “You were great, Mr. Holmes. Me and my colleague John-”  _ Oh, _ John mused while pursing his lips,  _ not a date. Just a chance to sleep with a “rockstar.” Shame, _ “-could ha-"

“Sherlock.” The Diva interjected. “Please.  _ Old _ men go by their last names.” His smile faded slightly, his eyes flicking to John, raking up and down his stature. “John?”

John raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“You didn't enjoy the show.” He supposed, hardly looking put off. Instead, he sipped his dark drink, awaiting an explanation. 

“He loved it.” Julie argued. “Tell him, John.”

With a sigh, John shrugged. “It was good.”

“You're glaring daggers.” Said Sherlock, ignoring Julie pointedly. “I deduce it was the violin to put you off.”

“Good work.” John rolled his eyes. “Yeah, just, didn't click. Good fiddling, though. Not rock.”

Sherlock drained another third of his glass. “Musical genres are complicated, John. You're rather old fashioned-”

“Oi.” John growled. 

“Mm, don't be too put off, John. I like older men.” Sherlock winked, making John go as pink as Julie had as the violinist strolled away with a playful, “Good evening.”

 

It was a fluke.

Definitely a fluke. 

John had not seen any of the flyers, and certainly did _ not _ intend to go into whichever pub was unlucky enough to work with -  _ for, _ John corrected bitterly, - that smug, smarmy, god damned-

“John.”

He choked, regurgitating a mouthful of his candied liqueur. “Fuck,” he hissed, coughing up a mist. “Hello.”

“You came back to see me.” Announced the Diva, sitting much closer than warranted and waving for his drink, which seemed to materialise as if by magic. “You're not drinking a horse's neck this time. I hardly recognised you.”

John nodded. “Yep. And you're drinking your...” he made a gesture. 

Sherlock smiled. “I am. How did you find my performance?”

“Adequate.”

Saying so made Sherlock laugh, sipping indulgently. “I'm pleased you think so. My compatriots find you quite amusing. Not many fans-”

“Not a fan.”

“-listeners have the stones to say such a thing to my face.” He commented. “Not only that, but you've come to do so again. My highest praise to you, John.”

John hummed, looking at his drink with vague interest. “Glad to live up to expectations.”

“Bi.”

That startled him. “Excuse me?”

“Excused.” Sherlock leaned back, staring off vacantly as John gaped at him. 

“Did you just assume-”

“Your sexuality? Yes. I assume bi, at the least bicurious.” Sherlock looked into his glass, examining its contents through the bottom of the cup. “You clearly expected your female companion, Jenny, Jamie,”

“Julie.”

“to sleep with you for retribution for the extra ticket you offered her. But, of course, that's rather scummy and shallow, therefore she did not rise to the bait.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, a silent challenge. “How interesting that not only do you share qualities with my bandmate Wes, the... guitarist,”

“I know Wes.”

“you also return on the evening of our free show, and sit at the back, drinking a  _ blow job _ and refusing to look at me.”

John's face screwed up. “That's _ really _ what this is called?” He nearly whimpered. “I thought he was just being cheeky.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, leaning perilously close, so John could smell his breath, his sweat, feel the heat of his body. “Did you return for me, John? Or for Charles’ world renowned blow jobs?”

Nausea rose in the back of John's throat. “So what if I did?”

“I would offer to treat you to my own revered version of the blow job.” Sherlock leaned closer, smirking. John was given a vision of the devil. 

Swallowing proved difficult. Either his pants had shrunken rather suddenly-no, no. Sherlock had definitely seen evidence of what was _ definitely _ happening in his trousers. “Toilets?”

Sherlock nodded. “A cab will be here in,” he glanced at his silver wristwatch, “seven minutes.”

Half dragged, half innocuously jogging, John followed his newfound...  _ eugh, _ to the loo, pausing behind him outside of the door until a brune hadt popped out and hauled John in after. 

Violinist by night, contortionist by day, apparently, Sherlock wrapped his body around John, expertly sealing their mouths together, allowing John to taste the mint on his tongue. They'd hardly gotten acquainted when Sherlock was sinking to his knees. 

“Do you have rules?” John asked quickly, deeming to elaborate when all he got was a distracted glance while his belt clinked. “Thrust? No thrusting?”

“Don't pull my hair.” Sherlock answered simply, unzipping John's jeans quickly. “Don't strangle me. Prefer you didn't slap my face. Most other parts are fine.” He pulled the waistband down slightly. 

John swallowed, throat feeling ever drier. “W-Wordplay?”

Sherlock mimicked his previous motion with his pants, inviting an all too eager penis out to play. “If you harass or demean me, I  _ will _ bite you.” He answered with a vicious smile. “This is all so banal. I think I'd prefer simply deep throating you, and doing soul-searching at a later date. What say you?”

Apparently, the last question was rhetorical, as Sherlock took John's stunned silence as an invitation. He gave John several seconds to withdraw or change his mind. 

He did neither. 

John merely waited on bated breath for what his captor would do with him, his head tilted back and eyes closed. Firstly there was a gentle tap of tongue on his head. Enough to make him jump in surprise without making him come his load. He swallowed again. 

Breath ran down his length until it reached the nest of hair at the apex of his thighs. A slightly chilly hand bullied its way back to touch his bollocks, chasing them as they nestled away from the cold, but fell openly into his palm as it warmed. 

Patrons spoke in murmurs just beyond the door at his back, some wayward plucking of a guitar making its way through the wooden surface. “I’d hardly call outlining boundaries between intimate partners  _ soul searching. _ ”

Sherlock chucked, dragging his nose back down John’s shaft, glancing upwards in amusement. “Fair enough point.” He leaned in, taking half of John’s prick in one go. He didn’t so much as flinch when one of John’s hands landed in his hair - which happened to be a rather thick bed of silky, short, black ringlets. A quick pull away had John slicked in rapidly cooling, but currently warm, spit. Coming back had him buried fully in convulsing throat.

The noise he made was best quantified as an  _ “mph,” _ sub-masculine but just shy of effeminate. He clutched to the skull at his fingertips desperately, heaving down a desperate breath. Hushed breaths stirred his pubic hairs slightly, feathery eyelashes ticking his abdomen as he blinked sluggishly. John thrusted slightly against the sudden trap of hands on his hips. Sherlock noisily released him and swallowed him against with a sharp choking sound. 

Looking down proved that Sherlock was not at all struggling against his admittedly half-arsed hold. His head jounced away and back, massaging the underside of his cock with his tongue, his lips wrapped tightly around the diametre of the trunk of his penis, his cheeks hollowed for optimum suction, which was quite effective.

His forehead was sticky with sweat, magnetic to his hair, his near-silver eyes slitted with concentration, his brow furrowed, fingers gently feeling his balls, moving them in the plane of his hand, other hand surely squeezing one of John’s buttocks. Red was rolling down from his cheeks to his collarbone like wet watercolours, painting his white shirt sheer.

If he looked up, John was certain the mirror would be hazy with steam. The man crouched behind him looked debauched and drunk, despite what was likely only one drink, and a rather one-sided sexual encounter. John brought his idle hand to the crown of Sherlock’s head, raking his nails along his scalp with the reward of a distracted moan. 

Vibrations rattled from his groin up his spine. “Fuck,” John breathed once more, earning a fierce squeeze to his arse. John wasn’t entirely unincluded, following the gentle invitation to rock his lower body into the blessed warmth that surrounded him. He was panting and hissing, attempting to keep himself reigned in. His lip was nearly mangled with the force which he bit down on it to remain near-silent.

Sherlock was gone much too suddenly, the unexpected decline providing enough of a shift in sensation to nearly have him spill over. He slumped like an unattended marionette, clothes and body uncomfortably damp with sweat underneath denim trousers and wool jumper. He smeared the moisture thinner across his brow, wiping it off on his jumper.

Rising to his feet, Sherlock procured his mobile. “Ride is here.” He announced, glancing down at John’s obvious  _ interest _ with a smug smirk. “My flat is a three minute drive from here. We could be there in two if you managed to make yourself presentable.”

“Fuck off.” John puffed, smiling despite himself.

Sherlock tilted over, shoving his tongue into John’s mouth, blocking him in with practiced efficiency, kindly tucking his slippery prick into the waistband of his pants and zipping his jeans. “Shortly.” He promised. “Shall we?”

**Author's Note:**

> John is drinking (at first): A Horse's Neck  
> https://www.liquor.com/recipes/horses-neck/  
> https://www.liquor.com/recipes/blow-job/  
> And Sherlock is drinking: A Buttery Nipple (with peppermint schnapps)  
> https://www.liquor.com/recipes/buttery-nipple/


End file.
